


Claimant

by vulncrasanentur



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode Fix-it, F/M, Fix-It, Kindling a romance, SanSan Secret Santa, SanSan Secret Santa 2019, mentions of ramsay - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-07-19 14:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19975957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulncrasanentur/pseuds/vulncrasanentur
Summary: A s8e4 Fix-It, written for the 2019 Christmas in July Secret Santa on Tumblr. To be gifted to queenoferebor1204.“That was a long time ago,” she responded, allowing her walls to come down as a coy smile played at her features. “I’ve seen much worse than you since then.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cecilia1204](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cecilia1204/gifts).



Sansa’s eyes settled unceremoniously on the harsh man, sobered by his sudden presence. She’d known he was here for some time now, but had not worked up the ire to see for herself. Why, she hadn’t known. The Hound had been one of the only kind ones to her in King’s Landing, in his own tortured way. She watched on, and something caught in her throat as a young, lovely woman approached him, batting her long eyelashes. When she wrapped her delicate hands around his bicep, a stab of heat cut across Sansa’s heart. 

With a jarring growl, the Hound put himself in the girl’s face. She inhaled a gasp sharp enough for Sansa to hear it, and quickly dashed away from the table, and from the man sitting at it. The Lady let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. As her eyes followed the departing girl, she was hit with a sudden realization that boiled in the pit of her stomach. 

“She could have made you happy, for a little while,” she said sweetly, taking a seat at the place across from him. The sight of such a big man taken aback by the sight of her made Sansa’s eyes sparkle in amusement. 

His visage shifted quickly from shocked to irritated. Sansa surmised that it was all a ruse---his eyes had often betrayed him in the past, after all. “There’s only one thing that’ll make me happy,” he said sourly.

The way he said it made it sound like he wanted her to continue on, to ask him, to dare him to speak the words she knew he would say. Sansa allowed curiosity to get the better of her. “And what’s that?” 

“That’s my fucking business,” he snarled. Ah, there he was, the Hound she knew from all those years ago. The memory made her blood run hot. 

Sansa had to force down the apprehension that rose in her throat. No, that wasn’t apprehension... it was an entirely different feeling, one that enveloped her in a ravenous warmth as she recognized the Hound she once knew. Tension growing thick between them, Sansa sharpened herself and looked right into him. She wouldn’t back down for anything. The Lady had fully expected a twinge of childlike fear to grasp her, but instead... she felt something entirely the opposite, clawing at her center like a wolf at its prey. In her half-drunken state she felt a salacious grin tug at the corner of her lips, and settled instead for a mirthful gaze into his eyes. 

“Used to be you couldn’t look at me.” His words were sour, on edge, as if he’d sensed something odd in the way she looked at him now. 

“That was a long time ago,” she responded, allowing her walls to come down as a coy smile played at her features. “I’ve seen much worse than you since then.” 

“Yes, I’ve heard.” He paused there, and looked down past his shoulder at something on the floor. Sansa was surprised at the way his words came out, as if he’d never said a crass thing to her. Maybe it was in the simplicity of the statement. Maybe it was his softened tone, almost broken. When his eyes met hers again, she saw how pained the thought made him. “He hurt you.” 

Her heart turned in her chest but her voice didn’t falter. “And he got what he deserved.” 

“How?” 

Lips pursed into a terse smile at the thought, and a shiver as the memory of Ramsay’s death resurfaced, so did the words that had run through her head.  _ If only Sandor Clegane were here _ . 

“Hounds.” 

He laughed then. It was just a low chuckle in the pit of his throat, but it reverberated through Sansa nonetheless.

It was as if the man had appeared out of thin air, clapping Sandor on the back once, who gave a harsh glare in return. He seemed not to notice, and bowed sloppily at Lady Sansa, spilling some of his ale on the floor as he did so. “Should’ve gone with that lass while you had the chance, Hound. Not a chance that any other’d bed the likes of you. Not with that face, anyways.”

Sansa spoke without missing a beat, almost regretting the words and the way they spilled from her lips. Almost. 

“I would.”

Their new drunken companion guffawed loudly and dropped his tankard onto the table with a thud. “ _ Did she really just say that? _ ” He slurred, not long before he lost interest in their conversation and made to follow a serving girl as she brushed by him. He must not have noticed her, because for what it was worth, no man would forget such a confession out of Winterfell’s Lady. 

The Hound stared at her incredulously. Those slate-grey eyes held a gaze trying, hard, and cold. She could sense the rage building up in him. It was evident especially in the way he sat up straight and went white-knuckled from gripping the goblet in his hand so tight. “You’re drunk, Little Bird.”

She only offered the shrug of one shoulder, closing her eyes for a moment as she savored the words. “I’m not drunk---” which was true. Her words were very clear, her gaze calculating and observant. “Northern wine gives me courage. I suppose that’s why my men drink a cup before a fight; it dulls their sense of self-preservation long enough to fight harder than most southern men.”

“Ah, so does that mean you’re fighting now?” His voice had softened as if the man was gone, the whole hall was gone, and it was just the two of them here, alone. She could see what he wanted to say reflected in the depths of “What for?” 

Of all of the living people whom Sansa had thought to spill all of her life’s horrors, the man poised before her was, admittedly, atop the list. When it came down to it, however, was she really willing to open up again, to trust someone with such deep, traumatic, and harsh tales? He had told her the story of his scars, and now, she has her own. 

The Lady of the North bent her head in acknowledgement of his words. “This is not something to be discussed around such… open company,” she murmured, taking in the sight of those celebrating around them. Her Tully blues wandered over the crowd for a moment and then returned the Hound’s gaze. Softly, she looked at him, as though wanting, willing something. And then, with a single pass of her tongue over her lips, she arose. He could read it in her eyes, the words she wanted to speak, silently communicating her will to him. Yet like an apparition, she was gone. 

Sandor Clegane took one long look inward, downed his drink, and followed. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa leads Sandor out to the godswood and tells him about her prayers.

It was the shine of her hair from the torchlight that betrayed Sansa’s form hidden in the shadow. It glowed like copper---no, like fire. He’s been burnt, and by her, he’d gladly be burnt again. A thin hand reached out and beckoned him forward. “Come,” she said, “take a walk in the Godswood with me.” Sansa’s voice was soft, a compliment to the firm gaze she held over him. Sandor knew not what to do with himself in that moment except agree, so he simply gave a nod and followed suit. He tried to hide his surprise when she tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, in place of walking half a pace in front of him as was becoming of a Lady and a servant. But of course, only Lady Sansa would treat her Hound as an equal.

It was as if something in the air changed when they walked out of the castle gates, for Sansa’s posture became more relaxed, her gait more fluid. “Things weren’t the same in King’s Landing after you left,” she started. She’d become more straightforward than he remembered. “Joffrey became crueler, Cersei more manipulative. Yet... I’m glad you went when you did.” She tilted her head toward him to look the man in the eyes, and saw something akin to confusion and distress hidden there. “No, that’s---that’s not what I meant. I’m glad you went because that meant you ended up here. And we needed you. I needed—need you.” Her eyes remained trained on the path ahead as she spoke. “I did dream about you, many times after that night. Most often on the worst of days, but sometimes, when I simply felt lonesome.” 

A silence lingered between them, and though Sandor did not quite feel discomforted, he still felt the guilt of leaving her in that lion’s den all alone. Alas… he made no effort to speak, for what would he say? Would he apologize for leaving her there? No, that had been her decision, and she knew that. Would he say he should have stayed there for her? A dead man, he’d have been—surely they both knew that. 

“Could’ve ended up worse places. Might freeze my balls off here but at least I’m not having to be up the arse of some fat merchant in Pentos to earn a living.” He looked down at the lady and saw her lips pursed in a smile and a glimmer of mirth in her eyes, before she tore her gaze away from him. Something stirred in the pit of his stomach, but Sandor fought it back hard. 

After a while more of walking in silence, they came to a stop at a tree. With its bark of white and blood red leaves, Sandor guessed it to be a weirwood. “My father used to sit here after an execution and clean his sword,” Sansa began, “He’d disappear for hours at a time, always alone and always silent. I hated that he would turn into a different man on those days. I’ll never forget the words he told us, when we asked why he had to be the one to end a man’s life. ‘The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.’” 

She stopped talking for a moment, but as Sandor made to fill the silence, she spoke again. “When I set Ramsay’s dogs on him, I felt powerful. I was glad that I was the one who inspired that terror in his eyes, and the pain I saw him suffer was the only form of vengeance I deemed worthy. When Arya cut Littlefinger’s throat, I felt strong. I had just ended the life of the man who had caused all of this, who had lied and cheated and controlled me for nigh on two years.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day I came to thank you for saving me from those men who had meant to rape me? ‘Killing is the sweetest thing there is.’ But I still don’t think so. There are sweeter things. Things you and I both have never known, not truly.”

By now she had stepped away from him and taken up a spot on one of the weirwood’s roots. Her gaze seemed distant as she stared at a blemish on the tree’s bark, before suddenly focusing once more as she looked over at him. “The night before you rode into our gates with Jon and Daenerys, I came and prayed to the heart tree. For my brother’s safe return, for Bran’s health, and Arya’s sureness. I prayed for you as well. For your peace, and for some amount of gentleness to find you.” 

Sandor’s lips has parted somewhere during her speech, and he made to run his tongue over them as they closed to quench the sudden dryness there. He’d never been a pious man, not even during his time spent on the Quiet Isle. Yet… to hear that she had asked her beloved gods to watch over him struck a chord somewhere in the core of his being. 

“My lady…” he began, but was cut off by Sansa’s delicate, pale hand raised in pause. 

“Please, not that. Not… not here.” Her eyes returned to the tree’s face, and Sandor could have sworn he saw the faintest trace of a smile as it graced her features. Slowly she stood and approached him once more. He wondered what could have her so restless in such a peaceful place. “In the sight of the old gods I am but Sansa of House Stark. If you reject calling me by my given name, there is another, one that I recall being gifted to me by you. Is there not?” 

An eyebrow raised as if to challenge him. The man sighed in defeat and nodded. “Little bird, of all people, why me? Why am I counted amongst the people who deserve your prayer?”

Sansa raised her hand slowly, as if afraid to frighten a kicked dog. When her fingertips brushed his jaw, he stiffened and dropped his gaze to the ground. Her hand, chilled by the cold northern air, cupped his burnt cheek to turn his eyes back to hers. It hurt her to see him so put off by touch. “Sandor…” Her voice was soft and sweet as she spoke his name, as if afraid that if she said it any louder, the old gods would take it as a call to come and snatch him away from her. “Do you care for me? Do you want to see me safe and happy, or was everything you've ever done for me simply done out of duty?" 

He choked out his answer, his words caught in his throat like a cough. "Don't make me answer that. You know." 

That seemed to satisfy her. A soft whisper of a smile caught on her lips as she slid her palm down his shoulder, his arm, and finally, into his hand. "Let's make our way back into the keep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to post this! I wrote it all within a week or so (I am a very, very busy person) but was completely dissatisfied with the way it turned out. Let me know what you think! And this doesn't have any particular plot, so feel free to suggest ideas!!


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